


Irezumi

by ThisIsMyDesignHannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Gloves, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Licking, Hand porn, Hannibal is a tattoist, Hannibal might be a cannibal, Irezumi (Japanese Tattooing), Kissing, M/M, Nipple Licking, Rimming, Tattooed Hannibal, Tattooed Will Graham, Tattoos, Vein Licking, Veins, Will gets a tattoo, will graham is will graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisIsMyDesignHannibal/pseuds/ThisIsMyDesignHannibal
Summary: Will Graham has quit the FBI. Unable to trust himself, too tempted by the violence inside him waiting to be free, he is unraveling and alone. The Ravenstag that haunts his dreams stalks him... tempts him... is him.Tired of so much denial, it is enough for Will to grasp at the opportunity offered by the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter, a Horishi master of Irezumi, the ancient art of Japanese tattooing. Hannibal is nothing if not... unexpected, as is the pull Will feels towards him. Artist, confessor, friend... something more?  Can he bring Will's shadows into the light?This is Will Graham's becoming.As a mod for FMF, this is my giveaway piece forFresh Meat Friday's1000 Follower Prompt Giveaway!The winner was the wonderful InsaneRedDragon who asked for HANNIGRAM TATTOOS!





	Irezumi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InsaneRedDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneRedDragon/gifts).



> Enormous thanks to my amazing beta [fragile-teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup) ! And also to my nearest and dearest (you know who you are! That's right, I'm looking at you [TigerPrawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerPrawn/pseuds/TigerPrawn) ) who helped and encouraged me through many aspects of this fic, particularly on tattoos (yes that's right, I'm probably the last remaining person in the world without a tattoo LOL). Love to you all! XOXO
> 
> This fic has been translated into Russian by the lovely [Krayn_Aletale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krayn_Aletale/pseuds/Krayn_Aletale) !! Find it on [ficbook](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7599637) and on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740289). Enjoy and THANK YOU!
> 
> Happy reading :)

**Irezumi**

****  


 

_He’s in there. Waiting for you._

Will sat in the front seat of his car, the raindrops on his windshield distorting the light over Hannibal’s door, reflecting back to him through a prism of repeated images, dappling light and dark over his skin. He was gripping the steering wheel in repetitive pulses, knuckles white, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

_Only one more appointment — just one last session together and it will all be finished._

The tattoo was almost complete. Hannibal had booked him for this one final appointment. Finishing touches, he’d said. What he had called its “becoming”. The final flourishes of a master’s hand, brought to life in Will’s living flesh.

The idea thrummed through Will’s skin, melding with his anticipation, but still he sat in his car, muscles tense, staring at the door to Hannibal’s studio. He felt both hot and cold at once, reticent yet excited. He couldn’t tell if what he wanted was to string out these last moments indefinitely before going inside, or to stride up the steps and kick in the door, to finally relieve the mounting anticipation that had gripped him since he’d last been here.

_Eager for him to finally finish the tattoo… or just to see him again? One last time._

He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to that, wasn’t sure he was ready to confront what it might mean. Part of him felt like if he looked too closely at all of this, it would break apart… that somehow his usual scrutiny would throw a damper on what at times had felt like a dangerous but life-giving electric current forcing his heart to beat... faster and faster...

And now there was only one final session. One that Hannibal said he needed in order to breathe life into what he had created.

_What we created together._

_My flesh. His design._

The thought rolled pleasantly through his gut, a sensation that was becoming all too familiar. It was hard to believe that only a few months ago Will had never even heard of a man named Hannibal Lecter, let alone imagined that he would offer up his skin as a canvas to his hand. He still couldn’t believe he had found himself here at all, sitting in front of this stately building, which looked to all the world more like an elegant Baltimore mansion than a tattoo studio.

_But then, Hannibal is nothing if not a master of what sits unexpectedly beneath the surface._

The art in artifice. The power in secrets. The beauty in pain.

 _Hannibal_.

Even his name, spoken silently in the recesses of Will’s mind, resonated within him like a bell struck under his skin, waves of sensation moving through him, tracing the lines and shade of ink now spread across his back, his waist, his ass… moving deeper inside him. That resonance was somehow inextricably linked to the man who had etched those lines into his flesh, as if Hannibal had infused the ink with his own essence, coaxing the nightmares from Will’s mind out into the light, binding them to him by setting them free.

_Perhaps he bound himself to you also. Or you to him. Perhaps we are one and the same._

A pleasant shiver ran through him at that idea, as though Hannibal had performed some kind of arcane alchemy, forging his ink and Will’s blood in the crucible of pain into something… new. Something…

 _Intimate_.

Will shook his head a fraction, hoping to clear it.

_Goddammit. Enough. Just get out of the car and go inside. This is the last appointment anyway._

Will did his best to suppress the tangle of emotions that brought to the back of his mind, pushing them aside just as roughly as he jolted himself into movement, grabbing his satchel from the passenger seat and shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He was used to this — denying the pull of feelings he found unnerving but… provocative — to harness them, to lock them away in a form he could handle. His empathy all but demanded it.

_Otherwise you’d have to admit to wanting all sorts of things…_

With a sigh, Will realised how tired he was of denial, of locking away the parts of himself that scared him. The weight of a lifetime — the destructiveness of it, so much wasted time white-knuckling a version of himself he knew he’d never be. In a way, it was what had brought him here in the first place.

_Hannibal would tell you to embrace what scares you, to celebrate your nature. Perhaps that is what frightens you about him the most. Perhaps that is exactly what draws you._

_Perhaps you should let it._

He took one last hard look at himself in the rear-view mirror. He could see two Will Grahams staring back at him, one achingly familiar but _false_ somehow — cynical, sweaty and nervous, angry, but oh, so tired. That one, diminished as it was, did its best to hide the _other_ , cloaking the one who sat staring out from behind his eyes with righteous and unabashed vitality, wreathed in bloody antlers and black feathers _._

_Terrifying._

_Radiant._

_Me._

Will watched as both sides of himself smiled slowly back at him, melding firmly into one, becoming whole and entire. _Becoming_ , just as Hannibal said the tattoo was ready to become, just as Will felt that perhaps _they_ were ready to become…

_Just one more session..._

Will got out of the car and strode towards Hannibal’s door.  He knew what he wanted.

No more denial.

 

*************************

  


_This man is not what he expected._

_None of this is what he expected._

_The first welcome of what will be many. A firm grip that lingers, a charming smile, sparkling amber eyes that pierce his own, searching. He forces himself to stare back, to hold, instinctually answering the challenge of that penetrating gaze. The world contracts._

_He is invited inside. Impeccable manners. Introductions, light and clever pleasantries. Camouflage. For both of them, he thinks. It is difficult to pay attention to exactly what is said. So much rippling beneath the surface. Distracting. His curiosity wars with the drive to turn around and forget he ever came here._

_“I must admit, I’ve looked forward to meeting you in person, Will. Our preliminary conversation, even over the distance of telephone wires, was quite…  intriguing.”_

_“I don’t generally speak to people much, as a rule. On the phone or in person, if I can help it. But considering that I’m entertaining_ any _of this… I seem to be bending a lot of my rules lately. As it pertains to you anyway… and what you do.”_

_They circle each other as he moves further inside the space, each taking their measure. He cannot entirely read this man, not yet, not like he can everyone else, but whatever hides behind this refined exterior resonates with him somehow, a kind of… pull. Cohesion, tension._

_Hannibal Lecter._

_The name rolls around his mind, as it’s done all week in anticipation of this first face to face meeting. Finally here, he feels the strange urge to say it aloud, over and over, to feel how the syllables form on his tongue, to match the feel of the word in his mouth with this man’s presence, so close to him now._

Is he as surprised by me as I am by him? 

_A bold suit jacket shrugged off broad shoulders reveals a matching vest, a patterned tie, unexpected but perfect… and a snow white shirt. The shirt surprises, contrasting the pots of ink, black as black can be. Tempting fate. Elegant fingers roll fine shirtsleeves to reveal strong forearms, graceful wrists, a tracery of corded veins like bas relief. He notes the curious lack of tattoos, tanned clear skin the only thing in evidence. Everything about this man appears refined._

But what lies under the surface?

_“You don’t worry about getting ink on your shirt?” Nervous words filling electric silence, kinetic, as though there is a reverberation building between them, the kind that shatters glass. The gravity of this man unnerves him. He feels off balance, but also as if he is recalibrating. As though the very timbre of his voice is altering the vibration of his cells, becoming familiar. Orchestrations of carbon._

_“One should never worry about stains that are the product of one’s passion.” An almost infinitesimal raise of an aristocratic eyebrow, the corner of full, curved lips. There and gone. A private indulgence, but he has caught it... has the distinct impression he was meant to catch it. A test._

_“Ink, blood, sweat... these are byproducts of what I do. There will always be other shirts. Your skin can be my virgin canvas but once. I care only for realizing the beauty of our design.”_

Our design.

 _The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He chooses not to respond. Safer that way. He can sense the predator lurking inside that refined exterior; well concealed but he can feel it, see it in the way Hannibal looks at him. It reveals itself in his poise, his self-possession, in the very things so cleverly designed to keep it hidden. Amused but watchful, relaxed but coiled_ — _he is a man at once perfectly assembled and perfectly contradictory, offering just enough to seem open, tempting you to come close, closer, closer still…_

 _By now, he has almost made a full circle around the room, fingers trailing on this and that, probing, measuring, assessing, testing boundaries_ — _his incursion an almost instinctual response to feeling so vulnerable, those eyes dissecting him from the moment he arrived. They follow him still. He can feel Hannibal’s tension, coiling tight at the intrusion, at his continued invasion, but still he allows him his exploration._

He’s indulging me. _  
_

_The setup is minimal but not cold, an elegant aesthetic maintained throughout. A large mat, obviously intended for him to lie on, sits nestled in a puddle of soft light on the floor, at the centre of what otherwise looks like a gracious library or office. High ceilings and hidden curiosities peek from shadowy alcoves, tempting further discovery. A second-floor gallery looks down on them, ringed by books, a single ladder for access, yet another invitation to explore. There is nothing about this space that feels clinical, yet everything about it spells perfection, neatness, the exacting standards of a master who does not compromise._

_Beside the mat sits a laquered tray with pots of black ink and a low stack of folded fine cloth. And the needle, attached to a long wooden handle by silk thread. Elegant yet savage at once, its very simplicity promising uncompromising pain but also perfect precision. Supple, but unyielding. It causes his voice to catch before he speaks._

_“Where did you learn this? Irezumi.” It’s not really what he wants to ask._

_“My Aunt Murasaki. She taught me that to create something beautiful takes practice, that patience is required, but also ruthlessness_ — _that beauty is so often bought and paid for with some manner of pain, but that pain can elevate beauty into transcendence.”_

_“You believe pain elevates us?”_

_“Pain and beauty are the two things which elevate all experience. Particularly when shared... with the right person.”_

_“And you think I’m the right person?”_

_“To create something beautiful is a form of ritual dissection, the flaying of something to its very essence, uncovering what truly lies under the surface. I believe you have something of interest hidden behind your walls. It… intrigues me. I believe it intrigues you also, even though it frightens you. ”_

_“You’re presuming what lies under the surface is beautiful. Tattoos may be beautiful, but anything has the possibility of being tasteless, don’t you think? Depending on what’s uncovered?”_

_“Do you have trouble with taste?” Eyebrows raised, curious, daring to be questioned._

_“My thoughts are not often tasty.”_

_“Nor mine. No effective barriers.”_

_“I build forts.”_

_“Associations come quickly.”_

_“So do forts.” Eyes catch and hold. He shrugs, trying to diffuse the tension. They both allow a subtle grin, eyes still measuring. “What makes you so sure you’ll want to uncover what’s behind the walls I’ve built?”_

_“I presume the same thing which brought you to my door. Curiosity. Opportunity. Understanding. What better task than to elevate? To provide freedom to something’s true nature, imprisoned as it so often is, beating its wings against its gilded cage, locking antlers in frustration. To do so is to truly see.”_

_The world dislocates, folds back on itself, duplicates. For a moment he is looking out of two sets of eyes, a crowning rack of antlers reaching to the ceiling, a crush of feathers muting the rush of blood in his ears, soft and raven-black._

See?

 _“You ask if you are the right person to share this with, Will. I simply ask… Do you have something inside you that wishes to be free?”_  


 

*************************

  


This had all started, as so many things seemed to for him, wrapped up in blood and savagery. Fear, adrenaline, righteous fury and simmering wrath, the smell of gunpowder adding a piquant note to an already heady brew of violence let loose from restraint.

And pleasure. Will couldn’t deny the pleasure. It was the pleasure that had disturbed him most of all.

Garret Jacob Hobbs. His wife lying dead on the front steps, his daughter’s throat bleeding out from between Will’s fingers. He had watched as the man bled his last from wounds of Will’s own design and been transfixed, drinking it all in, gasping great gulps through jangled nerves and shaking muscles as Hobbs had stuttered a final breath upon one single word.

_See?_

The scene should have disgusted him; they _all_ should have disgusted him, stepping into a killer’s shoes, embodying their violence as his own — but instead Will had felt an all too-familiar pull. From somewhere rooted deep in his gut, it had reached out to wrap itself around him, to wreath him in a heady sense of fleeting freedom, power, righteousness _,_ as he kept his eyes fixed on Hobbs’.

_See?_

Will had seen. He’d seen that the pull deep in his gut was not revulsion, nor disgust. It was exhilaration, satisfaction… even desire. He saw in that moment how that feeling stretched backwards and forwards throughout his life, wrapped inextricably with his loneliness, with the guilt and denial he had carried with him for as long as he could remember.

He saw that it was terrible and beautiful and _tempting..._ and he knew that he would always feel this way. That he would never forget how he felt when he watched the life leave Hobbs’ body, knowing that he had removed him from the earth.

Will Graham had taken an indefinite leave from the FBI.

He couldn’t trust himself. Not with a loaded gun on his belt and Jack enabling him, all too willing to sweep something like Hobbs’ death under the table if it meant catching the ‘bad guy’. Even if it meant ignoring how unhinged Will was becoming; his quietly rabid dog on an ever-fraying leash. Will knew Jack thought he felt guilty for killing the man, but what Will would never let on was that the only guilt he felt was for not feeling guilty enough.

He knew there would always be another Hobbs... always another excuse to indulge that part of himself and get away with it. Will knew he would do it again if given the opportunity, someone who made that righteous fury rise up inside him, someone bad enough that he could abandon heavy denial just long enough for his wrath to mount him like a majestic rack of antlers, cloaked in feathers and sheened in blood.

Hell, he didn’t just know he would; deep down in a place that frightened Will more than any other, he knew that he _wanted_ to.

That’s when the nightmares had started. Those first weeks at home in his little house in Wolf Trap, surrounded by his pack, all of them piled together on the bed, trying to keep him safe from a threat they couldn’t see but could feel in Will’s trembling sleep, and the acrid smell of his sweat.

They came almost nightly, the Ravenstag stalking him in the dark as he, in turn, invariably stalked another, their prey elusive yet unsuspecting. The stag felt both _him_ and _not him_ somehow, his whole being personified, but also that of a partner, of perfect reciprocity. They hunted together, mirroring each other’s movements until he couldn’t tell where he ended and the Ravenstag began; until they merged together in the blood and pain of the inevitable culmination of the kill, a moment that felt like fire, like birth and death rolled into one.

It felt like ecstasy.

Will would wake each and every time, panting, covered in sweat, his shorts sticky from having invariably spent himself in that moment before waking. He half expected to be covered in blood and dirt when he woke, but never was. It had embarrassed him at first, avoiding his own gaze in the bathroom mirror as he pulled off his boxers and cleaned himself up. But over time, he had begun to feel like he was moving past such banality, that the intensity of those dreams, the way the Ravenstag would step inside his skin and leave him feeling a kind of joy... it left such simple feelings as embarrassment or guilt to flounder at the back of his mind.

It left him wishing he could return to sleep forever… wishing in his heart of hearts that the Ravenstag never had to leave him at all.

  


********************

  


_The lines are drawn now, blackest black, hard and fast. The outline of arching antlers trace his shoulders, down his neck to carve around the muscles of his back, curling around his hips, under his ass. His bones have become the scaffolding for both himself and the other, his spine no longer just his spine, his ribs no longer just his ribs, but feathers now, dark as night.  
_

_The lines are drawn. Now begins the time of gradient, of subtlety, of slippery slopes. Now is the time for grey areas, of moving from dark to light. Of filling in the spaces in between. Of becoming. The design is not his own, but it is. It is his, it is theirs. He does not seek to direct, makes no demands, he trusts that the stab of the needle is drawing him out, whispering through the chrysalis to hatch his very nature._

_See?_

_The voice beside him is soft as velvet. That voice and the stab of the needle have become his whole world, heady and entire. The pain to send him flying, the voice to ground him._

_“The meat of this world can be found in the shadows, Will. The lines we draw to contain them are arbitrary but give shape to our desires. Shadow cannot exist without form. We cannot give form to our lives without the shadow, without the gradient that lies in between. The hidden parts of who we truly are, of what we desire...  they are what give us life. Tell me, Will, does your Ravenstag still live in shadow? Does it give you life?”_

_It all feels like a dream. The subtle strains of classical music, the hiss and pop of the fireplace, the smell of the ink and old books. He lies in the comfort of darkness, pushing his face into the pillow on the floor beneath him. Stretched out, naked, it gives him the illusion of privacy... as if he isn’t already flayed bare under those hands, under that gaze, dissected by razor sharp regard._

_He is never expected to speak, not unless he chooses to. Not during a session. While the needle works, he is allowed to drift, wading into the quiet of a stream that becomes a sea of disparate sensation, those black-gloved fingers, gentle but confident on his skin, a somehow decadent contrast to the biting pain. Hannibal kneeling close beside him, his anchor, while he casts himself adrift on the swelling waves of that compelling voice and the endless jab of the needle._

_“Pain is merely a signal from the brain, the evolutionary impulse to avoid something that may be dangerous to us. It is not an imperative. Choosing instead to run towards pain, to court danger, to endure by choice… pain can become pleasure. It can become an act of both submission and rebellion... the act of creation it so often is, of transformation, of becoming. You endure beautifully, Will.”_

_The pain. The pain is so constant it has become something... other. Something his brain no longer recognizes as pain. He can see it, white hot behind his closed eyes. It has become something blinding, enormous and focused, terrible but beautiful, like the birth of a star. The needle stabbing into his skin, again and again and again, Hannibal’s firm hands wiping the ink away over and over, revealing the marks he’s etched, the story he is telling in Will’s flesh. It has its own rhythm, its own hypnosis, its own language between them._

_“I’d like you to stay a while after your appointment, Will, if you would care to join me. I have… permanently rescheduled the client who usually follows you. I feel we might both enjoy… more conversation. Perhaps we can speak more comfortably once you have experienced the… release… of your session.”_

_A pleasant warmth at that, spreading through his limbs like warm honey. Is it his imagination, or does Hannibal’s hand linger on his back, as if he is feeling for his reaction in the vibrations of his skin? Face still buried in the pillow, Will imagines what that hand looks like touching him, black latex pulled over elegant fingers, the thinnest of barriers._

I wish he would take off the gloves.

_A thought from nowhere. Perhaps even a lazy thrill deep in his gut. Is this what connection feels like? Acceptance?_

See?

 _He twists himself to face the man above him, dragging the sheet enough to cover himself, still wrestling with his modesty as he rests back on one elbow. But he needs to see his face. He needs to see_ him _. That warm hand still touches his back, arm draped over and around him now since he has turned around, so close, dynamic tension, like a renaissance statue._

_“Tell me something first, Hannibal. You speak of what I have locked inside me, of what I desire… you say tattoos are a part of freeing our shadows, frightening as they may be. But where are your tattoos, Hannibal? What are your shadows?_

_Another of those inscrutable smiles, so slight, but spreading all the way to his eyes. Is it his imagination or did a thumb move against his back?_

_“As you say, Will, not all things can be tasty. Not everyone’s shadows thrive on full display. Shame plays no role in the things I choose to conceal, merely… discretion… and patience. The right pair of eyes. The right… resonance…”_

_Gazes locked, breath loud in his ears. His skin is vibrating._

_Resonance._

_Hannibal releases him, sitting back, wordlessly gathering a bandage as Will turns himself back over._

_Patience._

_They will remain together throughout the evening, and many evenings after. Hushed tones sparking animated discourse, quiet laughter and companionable silences, the notes and counter-notes of understanding emerging in time with the Ravenstag on his back._

  


********************

  


It was Beverly who had given him Hannibal’s business card.

After months of seeing almost no one, alone with his dreams and his dogs, Bev had gotten in touch with him. Only Alana had come to see him otherwise, but her visits had faltered as their rapport chilled. Will had begun to feel like she was probing him for information, each question designed to pull more from him than he was willing to part with, her eyes showing a kind of worrying pitty that disgusted him.

But Bev had always been different. He had never gotten any pity from her. Her sharp wit and quick mind, her self-possession… Will knew where he stood with her, and she was one of the only people he would even entertain the idea of being around. She’d given him the card the second time she had coaxed him out for a drink, an invitation he’d been very tempted to turn down.

He’d drunk too much the first time they had gone out, and he knew he had said too much. His nerves had been frayed, out amongst the living for the first time in an age, enough so that he had knocked back without keeping count. Will didn’t remember much from the end of the night, but he did recall an inscrutable look on her face as he’d mumbled something about only feeling complete when he allowed the Ravenstag to step into his skin.  

Even though he had eventually agreed to meet up with her a second time, he still spent much of the night staring into the depths of his whisky, beginning to shut down with her just like he had with Alana, sensing that same question mark in her eyes when she looked at him.

_She knows too much. She sees._

But at the end of the night, coming on the heels of a long few minutes of silence between them, Bev slid a business card across the table until it was directly under Will’s gaze, holding it captive under one long finger until Will reluctantly looked up at her in question. She held his eyes for a moment, her own narrowing as if she hadn’t decided yet if she would relinquish the card. Will let the silence string out until she apparently made some kind of internal decision, lifting her finger with a sigh.

“Listen Will, I got this from a case I’ve been working on. His name came up in connection with something, but he seems to have been... satisfactorily ruled out. I think… I don’t know if it’s a good idea to be encouraging this whole thing or not, but believe it or not, I want you to be okay. And I believe the only time I’ve seen you look anything approaching that was when you were talking about your Ravenstag, even miserable about it as you seem to be. I don't know… This might be a way of… getting him under your skin permanently, so to speak.”

Will had looked at her for a long moment.  She merely stared back at him, unwavering. He didn’t reach for the card. Truth be told he wanted to just get up and walk out, but Bev spoke up again, this time her tone bordering on anger.

“Jesus Will, do whatever you want with it, but do _something_. You’re rotting out here. There is nothing wrong with being alone, but there is something wrong with this… limbo you seem to be living in. Like you’re letting the real world fade out so that you can live in these dreams of yours. Do the opposite. Bring the dream out into the light, and get back to living.”

With that, Bev had grabbed her bag to leave, but before she could, Will grabbed her arm. He felt her stiffen under his grip, something instinctual inside her bristling at him. Her eyes snapped to his again, but immediately softened at what she saw there. He let go of her arm nonetheless.

“Bev, I… I’m sorry. I’ve never been… good at this. At talking. At being… friendly.”

“It’s fine, Will. It’s not like I ever thought of you as a sparkling conversationalist. Just… call the number. You’ll probably laugh, but maybe just consider it. I’m no therapist, but maybe this will help. Either way, it’s pretty badass.”

With a final enigmatic smirk, she shrugged and left. Will looked down at the card. Simple, clean and white. Elegant.

_  
_

_Hannibal Lecter_

_Irezumi_

_By Appointment Only_

 

Will had called the Baltimore number when he got home. It was late, and he’d had too much to drink again, but he would rather deal with a machine than have to talk to someone. The voice on the recording was exotic, deep and rich, intriguingly accented, and somehow strangely calming to him. Will found himself hanging on every enigmatic word.

_You have reached Hannibal Lecter. Please leave your name and number and the reason you would like to apply for an appointment. If you are selected, I will contact you for your initial assessment. Regards._

What the hell? Had Bev given him the number of a shrink? _Apply_ for an appointment? That took some nerve. The unspoken final line of the message implied an almost amused dismissal, as though the man on the line, _Hannibal_ , had been entertaining himself with the idea of leaving people dangling on his hook.

_If you are selected…_

It took a moment or two for Will to realize he hadn’t hung up yet, as though Hannibal Lecter’s voice had already hooked him, that deep resonance almost hypnotic, blurring the boundary between dream and reality. Will’s voice finally stammered into action…

“Um yeah, hello? Right… this is uh, Will Graham. My number should be on your display, I’m sure you could find me if you really wanted to. If I’m _selected_ or whatever.” Will let out a caustic caw of a laugh which, even to him, sounded a little manic. _Yeah, this is going great, you should hang up now._ “Listen, I don’t even know how you’re supposed to help me. So unless you’ve found a way to meld skin with antlers and feathers, just ignore this message. I’m sure you will anyway.”

And with that Will had hung up, disoriented and completely baffled as to why he had said so much, still completely in the dark as to who he had just left a message for or what he did and ultimately too tired to care. He felt like he was already dreaming, and it didn’t take much for him to pull off his clothes and fall into bed, feeling the dream flow around him, enveloping him like black water.

  


******************

  


Will passed a fitful night, his dreams full of blood and searching. This time, the voice on the answering machine had echoed in the dark… _If you are selected_ … The voice had been just ahead of him, then just behind him; he couldn’t tell if he was chasing it or if it was chasing him. At the very moment that he and the Ravenstag had merged, ready to strike a  final blow on an unseen adversary, the voice had echoed at the very centre of him, sending wave after wave of debilitating pleasure coursing through him. The sensation still clung to him after he woke, trailing like gossamer threads.

Shaken and unnerved, Will had cleaned himself up and let the dogs outside, settling into a chair on his porch to try and gain his bearings. It was cold, but he didn’t care. He needed to wake up. He could feel himself… slipping. He needed something concrete, something to moor him in reality. Will pulled out his phone and looked up the word on Hannibal Lecter’s card.

Irezumi, as it turned out, was the ancient art of Japanese tattooing, done not with an electric gun, but instead through a painstaking and painful process by hand, using needles bound to wooden sticks with the finest of silk threads.

 _Tattoos_.

Will scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to wipe away the dark scowl that he knew had etched itself on his features. There was a cynical laugh bubbling up inside him that he tried to keep down, as if to let it out would be to crack entirely.

_That’s it?_

It was a little underwhelming, he had to admit. From what he could remember of the night, hazy as it was, Bev had seemed so… clandestine about it all. And that voice on the machine…it had somehow hinted at some deep secret, full of dark mirth, something Will might even be able to access if only he could be “selected”...

_But a tattoo?_

He tried not to feel disappointed. But anything was better than another shrink, right? And some of the images he was seeing were beautiful. He scrolled through photos on his phone, frescos in flesh.

_Not just a tattoo… Irezumi._

Will had to admit he was intrigued in spite of himself. The name itself bore its root in the word for “to carve”, an image etched permanently over months, even years, one painful stab at a time, imbibing the skin with something of both the giver and receiver; the tattooist, or _Horishi_ , and the living, breathing canvas collaborating together, but with the ultimate power of decision residing in the Horishi’s hands. He was master. The other, a supplicant of sorts, trusting to the master to choose the proper image to match him, deferring to his skill and experience, a kind of controlled submission to another, to his ability to see inside to the truth.

_See?_

Will felt a shiver run up his spine. He would never have thought something like this would have appealed to him, not in a million years. But as he sat there on his porch, the dogs snuffling around his feet, relaxed and secure in their place in the world… Hannibal Lecter’s voice rattling around in his head - the idea of it all seemed… tempting. Finding stillness and beauty in a haze of pain, knowing that the person inflicting it was somehow drawing your true self out to express itself freely on the surface of your skin. Something inside him thrilled at the idea.

And just like that, the phone in his hand had rung.

  


************************

  


_His Ravenstag is almost alive, realized more and more after each visit, every stab of ink. He lies on the mat, under the needle, under Hannibal’s hands and eyes and ministrations. He feels no urgency here, no dislocation. Somehow, over the months of repeat visits, this place, this pain, that voice, cool confident fingers on his skin, even gloved, a somehow decadent contrast to the biting needle_ — _this has become the place where he is truly himself, truly seen. It is a feeling only felt before in his dreams, and just as thrilling._

_As the Ravenstag becomes, so does he. He becomes himself._

_“We wear our skin like a suit for the outside world to see. It hides our true nature, too precious to expose to the glaring light of scrutiny. In turn, even our skin is hidden... tucked away from disapproving eyes. Layers built upon layers. Walls of our own making. All to hide our savage, radiant natures from the world... cloth over skin over pure, incandescent truth. You have chosen to release your nature from at least one layer of that restraint, Will, even if only you and I will know it. But the question remains, how much further will you let yourself out? How much more will you deny?”_

_He says nothing. These are questions he has asked himself each and every night since the first. He is content to listen to Hannibal’s voice as it weaves into the warp and weft of the pain._

_How_ present _Hannibal feels to him now, even when he isn’t here, growing ever stronger as the tattoo progresses, as though he has somehow infused it with his regard, with his own essence. Will tries sometimes to ignore it; but at night, in quiet moments alone, he can feel him there, hovering between his skin and the coolness of the bedsheet underneath him, bringing Will’s darkness into the light of appreciative amber eyes, acceptance, collaboration._

_It is… intimate._

_After his appointments, he lies awake each night in Wolf Trap, no longer rushing to dream, savouring instead the lingering strains of fire that trace his back, the memory of gloved hands on his skin. He finds himself anticipating, as though the days between his visits are merely filler, a limbo until he is laid out under Hannibal’s hands once again. He thinks more and more often about what’s beneath that crisp white shirt; of seeing more than what rolled up shirtsleeves and a loose tie will afford him; of what might fresco the skin beneath._

_He slowly comes to understand that his desires are more... varied, than even he had thought._

_But here, now, under the rhythm of the needle, he admits none of this, still labouring under the old habits of denial. Hannibal wipes excess ink from a section of his skin along his spine that now feels like icy fire. This is to be their penultimate session. Only a small area on his lower back remains untouched, no bigger than his thumb. He has not asked about it._

_He anticipates the next strike of the needle, but is surprised to feel only Hannibal’s hand instead, gentle, coming to rest on top of his most recent work, sinking into what feels like a well of pain; cooling, comforting, but also… something else. Will shifts on the pillows, unable to keep still, but is grateful when Hannibal’s hand remains._

_“Would you like to finish for the evening, Will? You have endured even more than usual, although beautifully, as always. I will admit, I am often curious how far you would let me go. Would you ever ask me to stop?”_

_“No… don’t stop.” It’s said without thinking, but he means it. He’s not ready for this to end. It’s as though something is building, whether to something more, or to a close, he can’t be sure, but it unnerves him.  “I can take more.”_

_“There is a word in Japanese… Bokukei_ **_._ ** _It means punishment by tattooing. Do you believe that you require punishment in order to allow yourself what you desire? Is that your pound of flesh for pleasure, Will? Or is the punishment a part of it?”_

_“Neither. Both.” He leaves it at that._

_Silence. He feels Hannibal shifting, feels his eyes on him. The moment hangs precariously. He is suddenly acutely aware of his nudity, something he has never really gotten used to… but also something deeper. He feels flayed open, displayed, appraised._

What does he want from me?

_“Please.” The word tumbles from him in a strangled whisper, barely escaping the crush of the pillow. He can’t look at him. “More.”_

_The silence strings out between them for a heartbeat… two… three..._

_Hannibal’s hand leaves his back. Will is sure he has said too much, has crossed a line somehow, even with so few words and in in this place of diminishing boundaries. His heart sinks as he hears Hannibal begin to remove his gloves._

_Those black gloves, one of the last boundaries between them, always that layer of latex separating them, thin enough that the warmth of Hannibal’s fingers bleeds through to his skin. They taunt him, but also keep him safe, keep him from being overwhelmed. Their removal at the end of each session is always bittersweet._

_But Hannibal does not stand, does not apply the protective bandage, or leave him to dress as he usually does. Instead he is once again gathering the needle, loading it with ink but setting it aside in the laquered tray. They hang on the precipice for a moment as Will anticipates the sound of him pulling the gloves back on…_

_But instead of the bite of the needle, Will feels warm fingers trail down his spine.  Flesh against flesh, light as the feathers that spread along his ribcage._

_It’s like a shot has been fired in the room; his ears ring, his pulse quickens, he is sure his muscles twitch where Hannibal’s palm spreads out to slide up his back, skin all but vibrating now as he tries to remain still._

Yes.

_Hannibal is silent as his bare fingers trace every part of the tattoo, following the path of each antler and feather as they snake around Will’s back, his ribs, following the muscles of his shoulders, curving up his neck and into his hairline. Will tries not to make a sound as Hannibal’s fingers briefly comb through his curls, but he can’t help himself when those same fingers follow the tattoo lower again, down his spine, his lower back, still burning from the work he had only just finished, finally curving under his ass to follow embedded ink as Will lets out a quiet groan into the pillow, his hands balled into fists at the effort not to disgrace himself by moving his hardening cock against the mat._

_“And with touch we see the world as it truly is. You are healing beautifully, Will. If more is what you want, then you shall have it.”_

_Suddenly Hannibal’s touch is gone, and without warning, the needle bites into his lower back. It feels like fire, pure and all consuming. It satisfies and ignites something inside him that wrings a moan from his throat before he can catch himself, and not merely from the pain. He tries to stifle it in the pillow beneath him as the needle stabs into him, over and over and over. Hannibal is working harder and faster than ever, ruthless, uncompromising. Giving him exactly what he asked for and more. Perhaps answering his own question… how far would Will let him go?_

_His fists clench again at his sides, balling the crisp sheet, more to keep himself quiet than to fight the pain. Hannibal does not stop to wipe at the excess ink that pools over his marks, working blind, by touch alone, knowing where the needle should pierce him. Knowing him. He loads the needle with ink so fast that Will cannot even tell when he has paused. It goes on and on and on, until Will is drifting in a molten stream of blackest ink, pure sensation mounting to a fever pitch that feels dangerously close to the release of his dreams._

_Transcendent._

_He can no longer contain the moan he feels building at the back of his throat; his cock is hardening underneath him; all of it threatening to betray him. But still, he knows he would never ask him to stop, knows instinctually that Hannibal understands just how far he can go. He has finally brought him to a place where denial and shame seem far away and pointless.  
_

_Trust._

_The stillness after the last strike of the needle comes mere moments before Will is sure he will explode. The sound of the needle punching into his flesh is replaced instead by a silence that rings in his ears, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing, fast, uneven. Hannibal’s voice, when it comes, is breathless in a way he has never heard before..._

_“Get up, Will.”_

_He knows if he rises Hannibal will see his arousal. The thought seems far away. He’s not sure if he cares anymore, but still he drags the sheet in front of him as he struggles gamely to his hands and knees. He stretches out a hand to Hannibal, and is immediately helped to his feet. They stand face to face for a moment, hands clasped between them, breathing hard._

_“What hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me. I want you to see yourself, Will. I want you to see what I see.”_

_Hannibal guides him over to the full length tri-fold mirror in the corner of the studio. Will is still clasping the sheet around him, trailing it like a veil as he walks. His steps are shaky. He can feel sweat sheening his skin._

_Hannibal steps back from him at the mirror, leaving him to stand on his own, surrounded by his own image, both of them taking in his many reflections. He can’t look away from what he sees. There he stands, flushed, sweaty, panting, but there also stands the Ravenstag, bold, fearless, radiant. And behind him stands Hannibal, master, artist, confessor, friend… Will won’t allow himself more than that, but he sees the pride in Hannibal’s eyes. Not only in his own work, but in Will’s becoming. He reaches out a hand to gently grasp the sheet. His eyes meet Will’s, asking, encouraging. Will lets him take it. Looks upon his true self in all its glory, Ravenstag and man, knowing finally that they were never separate to begin with._

_“It is finished, Will. It is your becoming. Do you see?”_

_A shiver courses through him._

_He sees._

_“Tell me what the open spot on my back is for, Hannibal. I know it’s not an oversight.” Even his voice sounds different to him, confident, even, centered. Hannibal pauses before he answers, searching his face. His hesitation is immediately unnerving._

_“It is the tradition in Irezumi for the Horishi to sign his work after completion. To stake his claim. To proclaim his pride in what he has helped bring into the world. To breathe life into it. The finishing touch, should you choose to accept.”_

_The heat that rushes through him is jarring. “You want to…_ claim _me?” He feels his certainty crumbling around him, doubt crashing in. It’s all too much, too fast. He suddenly feels the need to snatch the sheet back from Hannibal’s hand. Fury bubbles up inside him, anger always his most ready defense. “You expect me to just… let you carve your name into my skin? Into the center of… me?”_

_Hannibal takes a small step towards him, as one would towards a rabid dog, but his voice is still calm, coaxing. “I did not expect you would accept such a request easily, Will. I knew you would understand its… gravity. But you should know, I have never made such a request before… not before this. Not before you.”_

_His heart leaps, even through his anger, but just as quickly a terrible thought occurs to him. His traitorous his mind runs with it, already preparing to believe the worst..._

_“Is that what all this was about, Hannibal? Tonight? The gloves... your hands...“ He’s stammering now, rambling and he knows it, but the idea that all of this had merely been Hannibal’s way of coaxing him into easy acquiescence… that none of it had meant anything… it’s all too much._

_He strides over to his clothes, leaving Hannibal holding the sheet to puddle at his feet. He can feel the blood rising to burn his skin. He casts a furious look over his shoulder as he dresses._

_“I’m leaving. Don’t worry about the bandage. I’ll deal with it.”_

_And with that he storms out the door. Hannibal doesn’t deign to utter another word; merely watches him leave, still proud, but Will falters on the step when, looking back, he swears he sees pain ripple across that inscrutable expression. He steels himself against it before slamming the door, trying to ignore the answering stab he feels in his own gut as he walks away._

  


**********************************

  


As the final work on the tattoo heals, Will finds himself staring at it in the mirror for hours on end. The tiny open spot on his his skin stares back at him until he can’t help but envision what it would look like filled by Hannibal’s name. He knows it would undoubtedly blend into the whole as if it was always meant to be there -  a part of him, proud but proprietary. His mind keeps returning to the feel of Hannibal’s bare hands on his skin, exploring, appreciating… _claiming_ . The word still sends a spike of anger through him, but he can’t deny the pull he feels. His Ravenstag is finished, but he knows it will never feel complete, not with that bare patch of skin left unclaimed. _He_ will not feel complete. Not without Hannibal.

It frightens and angers him to feel so tethered, conjoined, unsure if either of them can survive this separation, this denial. But the thought also warms him somehow, sitting inside him like a glowing ember; waiting for him to breathe it into the blaze he knows it could become.

He has tried to close himself off just as completely as he’d slammed the door on Hannibal’s pained expression, turning off his phone, even pulling his blinds; drawing back inside himself. But eventually, he can’t stand it any more… he turns his phone back on. A single message waits for him.

 

 _“Will, this will be the only message I will leave. Such a clever boy. Your instincts, as always, have been impeccable, your actions perfectly ruthless, your wrath a beautiful thing to behold. Your accusations, my attempts to… influence… they were not unfounded. When I know what I want, it is not in my nature to leave things to chance. But know this, I did nothing I have not wanted to do since the moment we met. You deserve truth, Will. The tattoo is not the only thing I wish to claim. I want nothing less than to have you as my own. All of you. My need for you shares all the same permanence as the tattoo on your back._ Our _tattoo. My offer is open for as long as we each have that empty space, waiting to be filled. I would claim every part of you Will Graham, over and over, until time ceases. And I would give you myself in return.”_

 

Will stares at the phone in his hands for only a few moments before getting in his car, following the pull of a tether he can no longer deny.

 

 

**********************

  


He walks fast, eyes fixed on Hannibal’s door, the night air cooling the sheen of sweat under his clothes. He allows the words of Hannibal’s message to resonate inside him like a tuning fork.

_No more denial._

He pulls up short at the door, resisting the reckless desire to just kick it in. With one last deep breath he raises his fist to knock... but the door is suddenly pulled open. Silhouetted by the light from inside, Hannibal looks at him with an impossible expression... satisfaction, pride, need, wariness, all of it wrapped up in an adoration Will had never expected to see reflected back at him in another. They are silent for a moment, the world narrowing, neither of them entirely sure what comes next. It is Hannibal who breaks first with a soft smile...

“If I saw you everyday forever, Will… I would remember this time.”

Will’s heart leaps and his words fail him. He’s done talking anyway. Instead he reaches out to grip the back of Hannibal’s neck, pulling him in for a rough kiss. Hannibal opens to him immediately as he invades his mouth, searching, claiming. Hannibal’s hands come up to tangle in his hair, devouring him in turn, both of them starving. Will seizes the lapel of his suit, crumpling it in his fist, pulling him even closer, tighter... he can’t get close enough. Hannibal moans into his mouth; a primal sound, rumbling from his chest, through his mouth to thrum deep inside of him. He swallows it down greedily.

Will breaks the kiss first, biting and kissing down Hannibal’s neck, his hands slipping under his suit jacket to feel a firm chest, caged within his shirt. He feels the soft give of thick chest hair underneath and it wrenches a low moan from deep in his throat, but still he pushes back against him, trying to gain some distance… there is still something that has to happen, something he _needs,_ before letting this go any further. His voice is low and breathless, but he lifts his head high, looking Hannibal full on. He wants no misunderstanding… he is proud of this choice.

“Do it, Hannibal. I want you to do it. Take me inside and sign. Stake your claim. I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

Hannibal holds his gaze for a moment, searching for the truth in his words, ever wary. Will’s heart is hammering in his chest. When he can’t stand it a second longer, Hannibal moves, catching him up in another kiss, this one deeper, softer... eloquent. Will feels his body melting against him, their clothes already an infuriating barrier, just as the gloves had been. This time it’s Hannibal who pushes him back, strong hands gripping his shoulders, their lips the last lingering contact…

“I will have you in every way I can, Will, if only you will claim me in turn.”

Will lets a hungry smile spread to his eyes, reaches up to brush a thumb over Hannibal’s lower lip, daring… pushes it deep into Hannibal’s mouth. He feels the soft quiver of Hannibal’s tongue as he opens to him, curling around his fingers; he pushes deeper still as Hannibal’s eyes roll back and he takes him in all the way.

_Mine._

“Take me inside, Hannibal.”

He is already removing his jacket as Hannibal pulls him inside, desire emboldening him, his past modesty a dim memory. He wants to be seen now, in the way only this man can. This time he has no intention of undressing in the shadows. Unbuttoning his shirt and turning to face him, Will is almost overwhelmed when he sees that Hannibal has already unbuttoned his own shirt, undressing with him, their eyes locked on each other. This time they will bare themselves together.

Will can feel his body responding, already incredibly hard. He does not try to hide it. He can see Hannibal’s hunger as he looks over Will’s body openly, the predator he always knew was in there lurking just below the surface. It sends a dangerous thrill through him, straight to his cock.

_I see you._

Undressed, Hannibal is nothing short of magnificent; a provocative grin twitching at the corner of his lips as he stalks closer, turning a slow circle before him, allowing Will to take all of him in, his tattoos now on full display..

_For the right pair of eyes..._

Will allows his hands to help him see; it is now _his_ turn to trace along Hannibal’s flesh, exploring, learning his secrets... Hannibal’s shadows take the form of renaissance paintings, blending, merging, dark and terrible and infinitely beautiful. His back contains all of the hellish circles of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ , Botticelli’s inverted triangle of torment following the V of his broad shoulders, down to the small of his back. The writhing figures of Hieronymus Bosch caper and cower through fantastical landscapes that follow his hips and ribcage and shoulders in turn, reflecting both the _Garden of Eden_ and _The Inferno_ together, blending the lines between ecstasy and torment - savagery and violence colliding with heady desire.

_I see you, Hannibal. We are one and the same._

As Hannibal turns to face him, Will’s fingers continue their path, combing through thick chest hair. He can’t resist pinching at his nipples, smiling to himself as they harden immediately under his fingers, finding himself intensely gratified to hear Hannibal’s breath quicken even as he stands firm, allowing Will this exploration.

_Still indulging me._

There are no tattoos on Hannibal’s chest, nor his stomach, a bold reminder that Hannibal is nothing if not purely himself. But lower still, Will kneels to explore two more Botticelli figures, this time from _La Primavera_ , one on each of Hannibal’s strong thighs; the garlanded nymph on the left, her left breast exposed, flowers streaming from her mouth as the winged Zephyrus on the right reaches out for her.

He lays his hands on Hannibal’s thighs, covering the faces of each tattoo, looking up to him now as Hannibal gazes hungrily down upon him. Will licks his lips, but hesitates, suddenly unsure, confidence faltering. Hannibal lets a small smile spread across his face, one hand coming down to comb through his curls, tracing around his mouth, his thumb dragging over his lower lip. Will moves to take Hannibal’s fingers into his mouth, opening to him, sucking them down, feeling them against the back of his throat. He pulls back to lick at the tracery of veins on the back of his hand, exploring every inch.

_These hands._

He is deliciously lost in this - tasting, consuming. Down here on his knees, even as they begin to burn beneath him, he would have all of this and more. Slowly though, Hannibal pulls his hand away with a low satisfied hum. Still slick with Will’s saliva, he moves it down to cup under Will’s chin, fingers gentle but undeniable, tilting his face up even further, pulling him to his feet...

“Get up, Will. Everything in its own time. There is still something we need to do.”

With no small amount of regret, Will stands to face him. Hannibal steps in towards him, crowding into his space, his presence blotting out everything else. Will tries to hold his ground, to remain steady when he feels Hannibal’s hard cock brush against his own, but a ragged sigh still escapes him.

He may have told Will to wait, but Hannibal’s eyes are hungry. Grabbing the back of his neck, he  takes them both in hand, rough, gripping them tight together, stroking slick and hard, the strength of his hand a decadent contrast to his silken length. Will feels his knees wanting to give out, but Hannibal holds him there, forehead to forehead, pinning him in place with his gaze. His rhythm builds in time with the groan Will hears coming from behind his own clenched teeth, something primal, savage… he feels himself cresting already, his weight beginning to sag into Hannibal’s body, thrusting into his hand, along the full length of his cock… he can’t take much more...

Hannibal lets him go. Will thrusts into the air for a moment, shameless now in his desire, chasing Hannibal’s hand before letting his head drop against his chest, panting, bringing his mouth to suck and bite at his nipples, hard between his teeth. He hears Hannibal suck in his breath and let out a low moan that fills him with satisfaction. The feel of chest hair against his face is incredibly erotic.

“Get on the mat, Will. Now.”  Hannibal’s voice is rough, a little breathless but firm, brooking no argument. Will does as he’s told. Once down on the mat, he does his best not to rut against it, but can’t resist allowing his hand to find Hannibal’s thigh as he kneels beside him, stroking that exposed skin, pale Zephyrous reaching just as he is… unwilling to break the electric connection.

Hannibal makes quick work of readying his supplies, pausing only long enough to lean forward, bowing over Will’s back to press his lips to the spot that will bear his mark forever, lingering there, reverential. Will feels Hannibal’s tongue, hot and wet, tasting his sweat, before he finally rights himself to quickly clean the area in preparation for his needle.

One final pause. Hannibal doesn’t touch him as he speaks, the implication clear... this time he will not attempt to influence Will’s decision.

“Tell me, Will. Tell me you want this.” Will can hear the emotion in his voice. The longing.

Will doesn’t hesitate. “I want this, Hannibal. Do it now. Please.”

Hannibal works quickly. The needle stabs into him as it had the last time, white-hot and relentless, almost savage. Will lets it wash over him like the black wave of his dream, that impossible moment when pain and pleasure become one blinding sensation. That small patch of skin feels deeply rooted through to his cock, as if Hannibal was reaching through him, coaxing a moan out from the inside. In order to keep his body still, he lets it loose from his throat; no need to hide anything now. He allows it to crescendo as the needle stabs over and over and over, his fingers unable to help biting into Hannibal’s thigh, fingernails piercing his flesh in turn.

Eventually Hannibal is finished. He sits back on his heels, the needle reverentially set aside. He leaves him only long enough to retrieve the bandages and supplies. Will is gasping into his folded arms, all his synapses firing at once, all his nerves like live wires. Even this small amount of time apart feels like an age. Will’s heart leaps when Hannibal also brings back a small bottle clearly not meant for his tattoo, but for what comes next. Settling back down beside him, Hannibal makes quick work of the bandage. Will feels his hands move to his shoulders, heavy, grounding, calming his still racing breath, anchoring him.

“Never could I have asked for someone more worthy to bear my name. You are a vision, Will. You own this mark, just as completely as it claims you… and I am claimed in return. Reciprocity made flesh.”

Hannibal’s lips follow his hands as they move over Will’s skin, smoothing around his shoulders before moving lower, trailing down his spine, stopping just short of the fresh bandage. He moves over him now, straddling his legs, his forehead pressing into Will’s back as his hands travel lower still, stroking his hips, kneading the flesh of his ass, cupping and separating his cheeks. Will is almost panting into the pillow underneath him.

Hannibal eventually snakes one strong arm underneath Will’s stomach, pulling him up to hands and knees underneath him, arching over him, still careful not to put pressure on the bandage. His other hand slides back down around and underneath to grip and stroke him briefly. Will is so hard, the contact quickly makes his muscles quiver in an attempt to control himself. His moan fills the room.

Hannibal wisely lets him go, just as he’s on the edge, instead moving down to lick a long, bold stripe up the cleft of his ass, tasting him. Will can feel the appreciative hum more than hear it as Hannibal laps at him, but it’s enough for him to answer with his own. The pleasure is enormous, threatening to overwhelm yet again.

“How I’ve wanted you, Will...” Hannibal growls at him, biting at one cheek, the predator barely in check.

“Then take me, Hannibal. Claim all of me. Do it now.”

Hannibal needs no further encouragement. Will knows the rest will come fast and rough, just as he needs it to be; no more room for doubt or denial. There will be time later for soft touches and soft words, for lingering and learning, but they have both waited so long. This is a time to be claimed, for both of them, to release that thing that lives inside each of them, savage and hungry but still longing to be seen by another who would take them no other way.

Hannibal pushes a slick finger inside him, sliding slowly in to the hilt, careful but unyielding... just as he was with the needle. Will arches his back with a heavy moan, pushing back to meet him before he pulls out again. One finger becomes two, twisting and scissoring inside him until two become three; the hot, slick sounds of Hannibal working him open are deliciously obscene, driving Will to the edge just as surely as the feeling of being stretched, of being made ready to take him inside. Hannibal’s fingers brush against that hard knot of pleasure inside him until he is crying out, his cock jumping and dripping beneath him.

“God… Hannibal… yes… more.”

The words are a jumbled staccato along with his ragged breath, but Hannibal does as he’s told, bending behind him to push his tongue in beside his fingers, stretching Will further still, pumping and lapping into him, feasting until Will feels he will explode from pure need… finally pulling out entirely, leaving Will gaping and gasping to be filled again.

“Please… Hannibal… I need you inside… Now.”

It’s all he can manage, but Hannibal listens, lining himself up and driving his cock deep, one fluid push until he is flush against him and the world is obliterated in a prism of blinding sensation, an impossible mix of craving and satisfaction driving out all other thought. He is a bottomless pit of need, perfectly and impossibly filled with Hannibal’s punishing length. Will can hear his voice echoing harsh in his ears, but cannot even register it as his own. Hannibal’s voice crescendos along with him as he drives into him, fast and hard, relentless and perfect. Hannibal slings his arm around the front of his shoulders, pulling him up and back in an impossible arch, leveraging his thrusts as Will drives his hips back to meet his punishing rhythm in turn.

When Hannibal pulls out of him suddenly, Will groans at the loss of fullness, practically collapsing to the mat if it weren’t for Hannibal holding him up. He feels almost boneless, awash in waves of sensation, utterly open to whatever comes next, so long as he can be filled again.

“Look at me, Will.”

Hannibal grips him by the arm, pulling him up and around to face him. Hannibal is up on his knees now, and pulls him down to straddle his lap, arms hooked up around Will’s shoulders for leverage, driving into him again; impossibly full, impossibly deep. Will flings his arms around him to work himself on Hannibal’s cock, their foreheads pressed together, eyes locked, their bodies pressed together, sweaty and panting.

Hannibal tips him back, one strong arm underneath his shoulder blades to keep him up off the mat, still mindful of the new tattoo. Will drops one arm to the floor, grinding himself even harder on Hannibal’s impossibly hard length. The angle knocks the breath from him as Hannibal hits that spot inside him, over and over and over. Will is crying out with each thrust now, head thrown back, eyes closed, utterly free.

But Will still wants more… to close the circle… to claim Hannibal in turn.

_Reciprocity made flesh._

Will surrenders his weight to Hannibal’s strength, trusting. He lifts his hand and plunges his fingers into Hannibal's open mouth, moaning now as he sucks them down greedily once again, lapping at every inch as he continues to pump into him. Eventually pulling his sopping fingers free, Will pulls Hannibal’s body even closer to him, reaching around his flank as it flexes and thrusts to slide his fingers between Hannibal’s cheeks, circling his hole.

Hannibal moans loud in his ear and thrusts into him even harder. It is all the permission Will needs before plunging inside, driving his fingers in deep, stretching him open, twisting, claiming him for his own. Their rhythm syncs with each thrust, each of them penetrating the other to the sound of their open-mouthed cries, Hannibal’s cock sunk to the hilt, Will’s fingers buried deep. Will’s cock is trapped between them and he ruts against Hannibal’s stomach. He curls his fingers inside Hannibal, pulling him even tighter, harder, closer.

“God… Will... “

Hannibal’s voice is rough, his thrusts are becoming erratic and Will knows neither of them can last. He can no longer see, pleasure and mounting release obliterating everything except the feel of Hannibal inside him, and his fingers inside Hannibal. His cry comes as a plea and a command and all at once...

“Come for me, Hannibal!”

With his fingers still buried deep inside him, Will can feel Hannibal’s muscles begin to contract as his release builds, each of them thrusting even deeper into the center of the other. Hannibal reaches between them to grab Will’s cock like a vice, so that they both come together... hard, hot, blinding and entire, their voices merging into one seamless cry of conquest and completion.

Breath heaving, muscles failing, Will pulls his fingers loose, watching Hannibal’s eyes as they roll back, fluttering white. With one last burst of strength, Hannibal pulls them up and over so that they collapse in a sweaty, panting heap, pulling Will up to rest against his chest, still mindful of the new tattoo.

_His mark. Claimed._

The word no longer fills him with dread. Instead, it fills him with a sense of belonging, of infinite potential, of the possibility of home. And Hannibal is his in return; to have and explore, to learn, to revel in. He knows there is still much they don’t know about each other, but they know the things that matter. Will traces the edge of a tattoo curling over one of Hannibal’s shoulders, then down again to the nymph on his thigh. They speak volumes to him, of a darkness inside, of a joyous violence waiting to be free…

 _Perhaps it is free already_ . 

The thought bursts with heady potential. They will not be the same, but they are just alike. They are…

“Identically different.” Will murmurs the words into Hannibal’s chest and looks up to meet shining eyes and a soft smile. Hannibal nods and pulls him closer. Complete understanding.

“You see me, Hannibal, and I see you. Just as we are. No more hiding.”

All urgency gone, shadows brought to light. Hannibal’s fingers fall softly to caress the bandage at his back, moving up to trace along antlers and feathers, pulling him in closer to his chest. Hannibal’s voice is quiet when he speaks, rough with emotion as he holds him tight.

“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

Will pulls himself up to look down at him, leaning in to press a kiss to waiting lips, lingering, fingers snaking around the back of Hannibal’s neck to pull him closer… perhaps already hungry again, breath quickening between them. Will lets a smile spread on his face as he pulls back.

“It’s beautiful.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, THANK YOU FOR READING! Kudos and friendly comments are magical, and you are magical for leaving them! 
> 
> Come flail at me about Hannibal on [Tumblr](https://thisismydesignhannibal.tumblr.com/) !
> 
> Also, go follow and participate in [Fresh Meat Friday](http://freshmeatfriday.tumblr.com/) Fannibals! We're there to help spread the amazing talent in this fandom for everyone to see! The last Friday of every month, make and check out Rec's of some of the best this fandom has to offer :)


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